Next, and of far more interest, came the Pope’s effigy, his figure hunched and squat on his throne and his painted face made more grotesque with an enormous red wax nose. He, too, was quickly hurled into the flames, the figure breaking free of the throne to tumble apart with a burst of scattering sparks that drew a fresh roar, the shouts of hundreds combined into one inhuman exclamation of ferocity.
“Straight to the devil where he belongs!” George shouted beside me, shaking both his fists toward the fire. “Burn in hell, you Italian bastard!”
His words were only an echo of those around us, hatred made palpable in a way that made me tremble. What would become of me if they learned I’d a Catholic mother? The straw pope was gone now, the remains dropping deep into the bonfire. That is done, I thought with relief, yearning now for the safety of my home. Now we’d be able to leave.
But another straw effigy had appeared, and was being passed hand over willing hand across the top of the crowd toward the fire. This figure was a woman, with oversized breasts and frizzled rope for hair and a wax nose nearly as large as the Pope’s had been. She’d a clumsy crucifix stuffed into her mouth and a ducal coronet of straw on her head, and if anyone were so empty-headed as to mistake her identity, she’d a placard of her own tied over her jutting breasts:
MARY D’ESTE WHORE TO POPES & DUKES
Sickened, I listened to the vulgar taunts and chants and crude boasts of how these good Anglicans would serve the new Catholic bride if they’d but have the chance. I remembered, too, how Father had said the king was glad the lady had yet to arrive in our country, and as I watched these dogs paw at the straw breasts of the effigy even as they spat upon it, I couldn’t help but agree. My belly churned with disgust and fear, and I was almost relieved when they finally ended their sport and tossed the loathsome thing into the flames. A yowling scream of terror and pain came from the fire, but beside me George only laughed.
“That’s the cat they tied inside Her Highness,” George said, grinning like a madman. “It makes a fine racket, doesn’t it? How I’d like to make the Italian bitch scream like that!”
I was sickened beyond measure both by the cruelty and his response to it.
“Take me home,” I demanded. “I cannot bear this any longer. Take me home now.”
I do not know if my unhappiness sounded so strongly in my voice that he could not ignore it, or, more likely, the others were simply tired of this amusement as well. No matter the reason, we soon after wandered off to find our hackney, and I was the first to be left off before my darkened house.
I hurried through the alley to the back door and let myself into the kitchen. With my shoes in my hand, I crept up the familiar staircase, not needing a candlestick to light my way. Without thinking I hopped over the third tread, knowing from long practice that it was the one in the flight that squeaked loudly. The only other sound in our house came from the looming case clock in the front parlor, its measured, rocking tick-tock following me up the stairs.
It was long past midnight, and my father’s bedchamber was dark and silent. While I’d made this furtive return so many times that I gave it no real thought, tonight I was even more distracted than usual. Inside my cloak, I was shivering still, and not just from the cold. I could not put the memory of everything I’d seen and heard this night from my head, the distrust of those I’d believed were my friends and the danger I’d willfully, heedlessly, plunged into, and that combined with the poor wine I’d drunk made me long for the refuge of my own bed. At last I came to the door of my own rooms, and with my head bowed, I gently pushed it open.
And there, to my sorrow, was my father.
Chapter Seven
BLOOMSBURY SQUARE, LONDON
November 1673
Good evening, Katherine.” Father was sitting in the armchair before my fire, the book that he’d been reading open across his knee. I couldn’t tell how long he’d been waiting there for me; he was still dressed for the palace, the gold embroidery on the cuff of his coat glinting by the fire’s embers.
“I’m sorry, Father, please,” I began, plunging at once into my apology. “I didn’t intend to—”
He held his hand up to stop me. “Don’t lie, Katherine,” he said softly. “I know you too well for that. You’d every intention of doing whatever it was that you did, else you’d be asleep in your bed.”
He didn’t fly into the rage I expected. He didn’t seem to be angry at all, leaving me to stand in confused silence before him.
“You weren’t alone, of course,” he continued. “Who was your company?”
I dropped the shoes I still held with a thump; no need for quiet now. “Jane Holcomb and her brother.”
“Those two,” he said with disgust. “They are beneath you.”
For the first time, I didn’t defend them, not after tonight. It is almost impossible for someone my age to admit that a parent’s judgment is wise and correct; the words will stick in the throat unspoken, and so it was with me now.
He studied me, his eyes narrowing a fraction. “At least you have returned safe. Did you find the excitement, the pleasure, you sought? Was it worth the deceit?”
I pushed my hood back, considering how best to answer. If it had been Lady Sedley asking, I would have blithely said whatever I thought would save me from punishment. But to Father, as he was before me now, I could only speak the truth.
“No,” I said, my voice so low I wondered that he heard me. “It was not.”
“No?” he asked, almost pleasantly, as if he were asking after my dinner. “You’ve always enjoyed watching the bonfires in the past.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, wishing that were enough to make me forget the princess’s effigy. “This year was different. I saw things I—I wish I hadn’t.”
“Kattypillar.” He rose, holding his arms out to me, and I ran to the solace of his embrace. “London is not always a pretty place, is it?”
“It was ugly,” I said, my words muffled against his shoulder. “What I saw, what they did—I’ll never forget that, Father. How can I?”
“You can’t,” he said softly. “But in a way, it’s better you don’t. Perhaps it will remind you to take care of who you choose as friends and recall where your true loyalties must lie.”
“Loyalties, Father?” Confused, I pushed away from his chest to study his face. He tried to smile, confusing me more, for he’d always been a man for whom smiling came as easy as breathing.
“Oh, yes, Katherine,” he said. “I learned tonight that you will be called to Court.”
I shook my head, not understanding. “But I’ve been going to the palace with you for years.”
“Not like that with me,” he said. “For yourself. The king wishes you to be among those supporting the new duchess at St. James’s. You won’t be a maid of honor, mind you—I told him you’d no place among those beggarly bitches—but as a follower, a supporter, even a friend. His Majesty thought that because you were of an age with Her Royal Highness, you might please her with your wit.”
“The king asked for me?” I asked, now shocked as well as confused. I stepped away from him, pressing my hands over my fluttering heart. “To be asked to St. James’s, I’d have thought the duke—”
“It was His Majesty’s suggestion,” he said firmly. “Not His Highness’s.”
He smiled quickly, bitterly. Father had been a favorite at Court since the king had returned to his throne, and he knew exactly what manner of men the royal brothers were. He wasn’t blinded by the Crown. He had shared in their debaucheries, doubtless with greater intimacy than I could ever imagine, or wish to. But he likewise knew how things were arranged in palaces, how one thing was said to cover another. I had caught the duke’s eye, but it was to bring comfort to his duchess that the king would invite me to join them. Thoughtfully, as a considerate brother welcoming his wife’s new sister to the family.
Neither Father, nor I, believed any of it. Nor would there be any question of refusing such an invitation, not from
the king.
“This is not what I wanted for you, Katherine.” Father turned away from me, staring down into the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. “You still seem so young, and not ready for—for this. You deserve more. I’d hoped instead you’d wed a man who pleased you.”
I gave a nervous little shrug to my shoulders. “I still might,” I said to please him. “There will be many more gentlemen to choose from at Court.”
“If you are fortunate, yes.” Fortunate, but unlikely, and we both knew that, too. No honorable suitor would wish royalty for a rival.
“Perhaps it is just as well that you’ll be spending less time here,” Father continued with resignation. “We could not have continued much longer as we have been in this house. You have made yourself so disagreeable to Lady Sedley that she weeps in our bed from despair.”
“I do not see how I can be blamed for her tears, Father,” I said, unable to resist one more jibe. “If doing her wifely duty to you makes her weep, why, then, that is not my fault.”
“Katherine.” He glanced over his shoulder at me, his expression pained. “That is precisely what I mean. You have never tried to be a proper daughter to her. I can only pray that you will be better able to mind your tongue at Court.”
“I know that.” Now that the first shock of the invitation had worn away, I could think only of all the excitement before me. “Court will be different.”
“Court will be different,” he agreed, “because there your words will have far more consequence, and more peril, than they ever had beneath this roof. You’ll find few true friends and many false ones at Whitehall, and everywhere will be those eager to push you aside to take your place. Choose your allies with care, sweet, and make as few enemies as you can. And be chary with your loyalty, so it keeps its value.”
“I will, Father,” I promised promptly, though I’d no real notion then of the wisdom in his words. “I will.”
He sighed again, this time with impatience. “Do not expect the duke to take immediate notice of you. Thank God, this is not a guarantee of anything. I’d worry more if you were in Her Highness’s household, a constant temptation to him.”
I nodded, impatient myself with his warnings. Whether the duke honored me with his favor or not, I was still determined to make my gaudy mark on this gaudy Court and claim as much glory from it as any lady could. That was what I wished for myself, and in my head I brushed aside all his fussing about allies and enemies.
“The duke has been living as a gallant bachelor since his first duchess died,” Father continued. “Things will change for him now. Not only is he still entangled with Arabella Churchill, but he’ll also have a new wife for his amusement. She is said to be most beautiful.”
“As I am not,” I said tartly. “I know my gifts, Father, such as they are.”
“Your gifts are considerable, Katherine,” he said, “so do not play that card with me. You’ll need them all for yourself, anyway. Because the duke has chosen to lean so far toward Rome, his position here in England is precarious. The king may have kept Parliament at bay by not permitting them to meet, but there are still plenty of members calling for this Catholic marriage to be dissolved before it can be consummated, and even more who wish the king to send his brother from the country entirely on account of his beliefs. St. James’s Palace will not be an easy house for anyone.”
To my shame, I’ll admit that I’d heretofore concerned myself more with plays and gowns and other idle amusements than thoughts of politics. Father’s stern talk was as new to me as the murderous hatred of all things Romish that I’d witnessed earlier in the evening. But I could see now how this must be the other side of being a courtier, and at once I resolved to make myself more aware.
“Parliament cannot stop the duke’s marriage, can they?” I asked, thinking how the princess’s long journey might be for naught. “If the king has given his consent, then they can’t override him, can they?”
Father sighed. “Not if they cannot meet, no,” he admitted. “The king is gambling that the lady will arrive before they do. Then His Highness’s duty will be to get his duchess with child as soon as is possible, to secure both the succession and his own place at the Court. It will be to your advantage that he’ll have no time for you at present. You won’t be forced to choose loyalties, or bind yourself too closely to him. If His Highness were banished to another country, I would hate to have to lose you with him.”
I nodded, my thoughts tumbling. “Then what am I to do, Father?”
“You go to St. James’s, as you’ve been bid,” he said evenly. “Look about you, and consider well every possibility that may present itself. Keep yourself free of His Highness for as long as you can. There’s no real glory in being a whore, Katherine, no matter her title or wealth. I would much rather have you wedded to a gentleman I could respect and who could give me grandchildren who are not bastards.”
“Faith, Father,” I exclaimed, overwhelmed by so much serious advice. “You would speak of grandchildren with me still a maid!”
“I cannot help it.” With his thumb he gently wiped something from my cheek, then held his finger up for me to see the black smudge on it. “A bit of soot, no doubt from the fire. We cannot have you less than perfect, can we?”
“No, Father.” He was regarding me with such tenderness, such affection, that I felt tears sting my eyes.
“You’re my daughter, Kattypillar,” he said softly. “You’re my daughter.”
WHILE THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF YORK had been officially wed on the last day of September 1673, the two did not meet each other until late November, when at last the bride arrived in England. By all reports, the princess’s journey had been an arduous one, filled with bad weather and worse roads. The bride’s party had traveled not by sea, but by land, from Italy through France, at the insistence of Louis XIV, who had strongly encouraged the match between the English duke and the Catholic princess; there were whispers that Louis had even supplied the bride’s dowry. But while Mary Beatrice had been lavishly feted by the French nobility along the way, she’d also fallen victim to a severe bout of the bloody flux, and had been forced to slow her journey to recover her strength.
His Highness the duke made a brave show of playing the gallant bridegroom, sending a yacht (named the Catherine, much to my amusement) to France to fetch Mary Beatrice across the Channel on the last leg of her journey. On that cold and blustery morning, he didn’t wait before the hearth in Dover Castle, but stood with a handful of shivering attendants on the stony beach to welcome her. Only his most devoted friends had accompanied him from London; with the members of Parliament raging against His Highness, not many courtiers wished to risk being connected too closely with the duke or his unpopular marriage.
Nor was the bride cheered by the sight of her eager groom. Weak and pale after a rough November crossing from France, Mary Beatrice required the support of her ladies to climb from the boat and make her way across the beach. There she gazed up at the smiling duke and collapsed with tears into her mother’s arms. While the Italians were chagrined, His Highness was undaunted, and painfully aware of the urgency of their situation. After repairing to a private house near the shore, the Bishop of Oxford quickly read the marriage contract over them to reaffirm the vows made by proxy months before at the ducal palace in Modena.
The duke was so enchanted with his duchess—who proved to be as beautiful as claimed—that every witness remarked it, while the lady herself continued to cry, even as His Highness slipped the wedding ring on her finger, three rubies set in golden chain. She’d scarce time to admire it there before her new husband swept her off to bed, to confound Parliament and consummate the marriage. There, it was assumed, the bride likely wept even more.
In a way it was surprising that we heard no more details of the wedding night. Through Father, I’d long ago learned that there were few secrets and less privacy at Court, whether for the youngest maid of honor or the king himself, and there was so much interest in
this new bride that no detail about her was considered too small for speculation. While she and the duke shared their first three days together in Dover, these details of the wedding and a few more raced back to us at Court in London. We discussed her unfortunate propensity for weeping, her inability to meet her husband’s gaze, the copious amount of blood left with her maidenhead on the sheets after her wedding night. Even the king himself was wild with curiosity about the lady, and ordered the royal barge to carry him down to Greenwich so that he might be the first to greet her and escort her himself into London.
A great number of courtiers had gathered in the gallery at Whitehall to be in attendance when she finally arrived by the river stairs. The gallery was a long passage connecting the public rooms of the palace with the more private lodgings of the royal families, and we were to stand on either side as Mary Beatrice and her party passed before us to her new quarters. We were crowded thick together by order of the king, so that we might offer a proper English welcome and outdo whatever the French king had ventured. No one was openly supporting the duke, not against Parliament and popular opinion; last night some London churches had pealed their bells in honor of the wedding, but there’d been far more interest in the burning of yet another effigy of the Pope, this one so elaborate as to have been valued at £50.
I stood with Father, Lord Rochester, Lord Buckhurst, and several others of their acquaintance. Lady Sedley was ill and had remained at home, so our little group had much the irreverent feel of the old days, except that I was now fifteen and grown and no longer their pet.
“I’ve heard there’s already a wager between the king and duke over how long we must wait before we have an heir,” Lord Buckhurst said. “The duke swears his bride will slip his son nine months to the instant from their wedding night.”
“Nine months, hah,” Lord Rochester said. “If she wept as much as they say, then she likely washed away his seed before it could take.”
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